


Blood on His Uniform

by winter_scldier



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Capital Punishment, Depression, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secrets, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_scldier/pseuds/winter_scldier
Summary: The US government has tracked down Bucky, and they gave him two options. He could either work for them, torturing and interrogating all sorts of bad people, or be executed. 
But how can you tell the person you care about the most, about all the truly evil things you do for the government?





	1. When He Was Hurt

_I remember the day I got my **job.** They took me in the middle of the night from our apartment, while Steve was at the hospital recovering from his bullet wounds he had received on his most recent mission in Barcelona. They tied me up in a van they had out front, a gun to my head the entire time. They explained my choices; either work for them, or be **executed.** _

_I was set to start after some "mental tests". If they decided they couldn't trust me, they would annihilate me. All I could do was nod as two guards surrounded me, weapons pointed at my skull. They took me to the hospital that night for a blood test, and to see Steve. We had little to money, and just simply couldn't afford to pay for our medical bills anymore. But, nobody in their right mind would ever hire me. I didn't deserve it. I was dangerous._

I sat down in the chair next to his hospital bed. He was so calm as he slept. All the pain of the day had been washed away. I kissed the top of his head as the realization of what I what I had gotten myself into. 

I was the boyfriend of Steve Rogers. He represented all of America, he represented **me.** I loved him. _I loved him so much..._

He stirred in his sleep, and I looked up. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, groaning in agony as he tried to adjust himself. I quickly jumped up and tried to hold him somewhat still. He gripped my arm with one hand, and rested his other hand on one of the bandaged bullet wounds. I couldn't stand to see his pain, but all I could do was sigh and be there for him.

Once his pain subsided, I told him about my job. I told him it was a government office job as a translator, and he seemed to believe me. I told him that I would make more money than him, doing a much more boring job, desperate for him to smile. He didn't seem to do that much anymore.

He slowly drifted back to sleep, and I got up and walked home. It was late, and I had a long week of tests ahead of me. I was not, looking forward to it.


	2. Emotionless

My first day on the job involved almost nothing but training, and presenting my skills to hundreds of soldiers. They looked at everything from the physical aspect, to the interrogation aspect. I had to be able to hurt and torture people, all over again. I sat and watch demonstration, after demonstration of things no human should have to endure. I wasn't aware of our countries torture tactics, but the first thing they told me when they handed me my uniform, was that things had changed.

I came home that night, somewhat grateful that Steve wasn't there. I collapsed, unable to breathe. _It was already to much. I felt the tears pouring down my cheeks. My heart wouldn't stop racing, I just couldn't calm down. My head started pounding where they used to brainwash me...and it hurt so bad. **The endless beating of the never silencing drums, echoed through my mind.**_

I sat there on the floor into the bright and early morning. I didn't know what I was going to do...I couldn't relive my worst nightmares all over again, but they were going to force me into it. I couldn't tell Steve...they would kill us both. And I couldn't do that.

I witnessed an interrogation that day, and it took everything in my soul not to go in there and correct everything he did wrong. I had done quite a few back in the sixties, and all the memories came flooding back. _Memories I had long since hoped to bury._

The man was tied up, blood seeping from the vivid stab wounds in his torso. The bleeding wasn't going to kill him, but judging by the cleanliness of the tools and the size of the wounds, he would succumb to an infection before they got any valuable information out of him. It usually took more than one session, and with any luck to him, he would expire before the day was done. 

The thought overtook me, and it frightens me to this day. _**One of the first thoughts that came to me was that they needed me. They needed me to hurt people for information. And that was the first thought I had in my prison cell in Russia after I took down a group of soldiers. They needed me, and I would survive it.**_

They dragged the man down from where he was tied, and I saw him smirk as they put a bag over his head, and dragged him into the hall.

I told the soldiers and agents around me that I would need clean weapons to do that job, and they all looked at me uncomfortably. I saw the _armed soldiers_ shuffled away, scared. I cringed inside. I didn't want to be feared, I wanted to be like I was when we were younger. _I wanted to be thought of as a regular human being. Not a killing machine._

But they listened. They had given me an office near the interrogation room, and wrapped in leather, were knives and daggers, freshly sharpened and shined. I felt myself smirk, and I hit myself across the face once I was alone. I hit my head over and over again against the concrete wall, trying to rid myself of the evil thoughts that were overcoming me. But it only resulted in heavily armed soldiers charging in, restraining me, and shoving and pinning me down to the desk. They couldn't have me "going haywire".

And I had been right. _The interrogated man was dead by morning._


	3. Bleeding

I quickly went from observing interrogations, to assisting in them. I'll never forget the reactions of the prisoners as I walked in the room. Some were terrified, some surprised. To be fair, nobody suspects the world's most dangerous terrorist to be working for the United States government, doing essentially what I had been trained to do. All I had to do was get close to them and they would talk. _They were so scared of me, and part of me liked it. I was desperately trying to push that part of me away._

Steve finally came home from the hospital a few days later. I told him all sorts of fake stories about my calm office job, translating all sorts of messages we intercepted. He believed me, and I had no idea how to prepare myself to come home every night, an act like nothing happened during the day. I didn't know how to come home and act like the memories of my past didn't come back to haunt me every single day.

He asked if he could ever come visit me at work, and I almost immediately screamed no. I sighed, and tried to come up with a solution. I ended up giving the excuse that all of my work was extremely classified, even if he did work for SHIELD. He sighed sadly, clearly disappointed. But we didn't bring it up after that.

I went to work the next day, and was immediately ordered to change into my uniform and come to the interrogation room. My uniform looked extremely similar to my older one. It was black, and my metal arm was almost totally exposed. I was told it was for better mobility, but I knew it was just for intimidation. If anybody is supposed to fear me, they needed to see their biggest threat, and being able to do nothing about it.

The man who ran the sessions wasn't there that day. Instead, I was greeted by a pair of soldiers and an agent. There was only one person to be interrogated that day, and unknown to me, the man before me had retired. I was to run them by myself, and soldiers would only intervene if I lost control. 

I sat in my office, studying my blades until they brought the man in. The soldiers were finishing up restraining him, and he looked halfway to the grave. He was dirty, skinny. And based on his expression it wouldn't take much more to break him. From what I could see, he was one of the lucky ones that hadn't succumb to an infection because of the rusty blades. But there wasn't much more skin for me to pierce through. That meant it would be all the more painful.

He was hardly responsive after they left. He said he could hardly move, and they were holding him based on a lie. He was being tried as a suspected terrorist, and that he had done nothing wrong. I felt sympathy, but all I could here echoing through my mind was that he was lying. _They always lie...all of them. You can't trust a single one._

I took one pf the shorter daggers, and walked up to him. I pushed the end of it into his neck, and he frantically tried to fight the restraints to get away. I spoke to him in what I figured out to be his native language. His body relaxed against the blade. He turned to look at me, and started whispering to me in his language.

He said he knew nothing, and that he was terrified. He said that his ex had called the police and made a terrorist claim, and they arrested him. Nobody believed them when he did nothing wrong. 

I put the blade down after a minute and screamed to the agent behind the glass in Russian. It took a minute to realize that he didn't speak Russian. _It took me far to long to realize I wasn't in Russia anymore._


	4. Damaged

One of the few differences this time, was that I had to submit a report after every interrogation. I was given the chance to watch the video and listen to the audio of every session, and, in my personal case, translate every word spoken in a different language word for word. But it was never that difficult. Even under the muffled audio and nearly silent whispering, I could always figure out what they said, even after countless other experts would try and fail.

I believed the man I interrogated was innocent, but they didn't believe me. A few days later I had witnessed a group of soldiers marching him down a long narrow hallway, and he was begging for his life. When he saw me, he switched to his native language so that only I could understand him. _There was so much pain. He struggled against the men to try and reach me, but his frail body was no match for them. I felt tears well in my eyes, and all I could do, was mouth "I'm so sorry."_

I had to force myself to become emotionless all over again. I had to sit there, and pretend that the people I hurt weren't **people.** I had to hurt them to protect the ones I loved, but who was to say they weren't doing the same? But I had to stand there, with my _tools_ next to me. There were times I had to borderline drive the person to the brink of death and insanity before they told me anything. For awhile, it got easier. I would come in every morning, change into my uniform, and wait for the prisoner to be brought to me.

_**But then I saw someone in their cell.** _

A man had died of starvation overnight. He was one of my more difficult prisoners...He held information until the day before his death. By the time I had gotten everything I needed, there was simply no point in keeping him alive for a jury trial. _But I didn't know that._ One of the agents had decided to take me to the cell block to confirm the identification of the prisoner, and seeing his frail body, dead on the floor, sent a surge of feelings rushing through me.

_**I felt like the Russian guard that hit me, tortured me, and made me the monster I was. His voice pounded through my head, old wounds ached with a phantom pain. The prisoner reminded me of myself, all those years ago. I could do nothing to defend myself, and I lied hopelessly on the ground, waiting for death to take me.**_

But this man received what I had always wanted. **He got to die.**

All I could do was nod as I tried my hardest not to breakdown. It took every ounce of energy I had not to collapse and scream until somebody sedated me and dragged me back to my office. _I needed to see Steve...but I couldn't explain to him why. I just needed to scream and cry and feel safe in someone's arms again. But I couldn't. He could never understand what I had to go through almost everyday._

I had to excuse myself from the scene. I raced to the bathroom as quick as I could, and I lost it. I fell to my knees, and sobbed until I threw up. I quickly returned to my office and locked the door. I tried my best to ignore the security camera as I kept whispering to myself that I would be alright. I was picking up old habits again. Every time I said something in Russian, I would try to beat it out of myself when I thought no one was watching. Funny enough, it never seemed to work.

There were times armed soldiers and medical professionals would break into my office and sedate me before I did anymore harm to myself or others. That tiny office was almost like a prison cell I had to return to when my job was done, and it brought memories back into my mind almost everyday. I saw myself being thrown back onto the dirt and gravel of the cell after a "treatment", as they called it back then. There were times after that day that I couldn't complete any reports, or couldn't do an interrogation properly. I would sit there, hands on my ears, tears pouring from my eyes, as I waited for the nightmares to dissipate. 

_But they never did. And they never would._


End file.
